Mend my soul, heal my heart
by You-drive-me-nuts-miller
Summary: When all of a sudden her world comes unexpectedly crashing around her, Emma Swan finds herself in the office of Dr Archie Hopper, trying to make sense of a past that is crippling her present.


**_a/n This is written from a mixture of personal experience and anecdotal evidence of friends. I see a lot of myself in Emma and this influenced my decision to write this; in a way it's therapy for me. See authors note at the end for more._**

Dr. Hopper lay back in his chair. The copper-rimmed spectacles he wore had large, round lenses that reflected the light from the soft spotlights on the ceiling so it was a little difficult to see his actual eyes. He looked almost like some kind of strange bug - especially when you took in his long, gangly limbs. Emma tried to distract herself a little, imagining him scurrying around the office floor: his voice had turned into a low humming-like sound.

"Emma?"

She started and focused on his face.

"Huh?"

"I asked, how have you been sleeping? Any problems?" He had a kind smile. She liked that. He folded his hands together, his long elegant fingers reminded her of that of a concert pianist. She wondered if he played the piano.

Emma sighed and crossed her legs. "I get by, I mean, I can live on a few hours a night. But I only ever have nightmares - I mean, that's all I can ever remember when I wake up."

"Go on."

Emma rubbed the back of her hand against her nose, trying to ease a non-existent itch. "It's not every night. And sometimes I can go days - weeks even - without any. But they always come back."

"So it's the same dream each time?"

"No," she smiled wryly, shaking her head. She was folding and twisting the tissue in her hands. Little white fibers fell onto her dark jeans as tiny, parched snowflakes. "But he's always in them."

"Him?"

"_Neal._" Just saying his name was difficult. Even all these years later a pain gathered in her chest and her stomach cramped when he was mentioned. The sensation had dulled over time, but it was still there.

Dr. Hopper flipped through the notes in his hand. "And he's your ex?"

She nodded in reply, shifting in the leather arm chair, the material creaking beneath her. She glanced at the clock as Dr. Hopper scratched a few notes on his notepad.

"So your nightmares, do they have any other constant, in addition to this man?"

"Well, _he's_ always being kind of a dick. Actually being a real asshole. We're still together in the dreams but he's ignoring me or avoiding me," she took a deep breath, "Cheating on me."

"And did he do this when you were together?"

Emma shrugged and tightened her grip on the tissue. "Things weren't great. But cheating? I'm not sure. I mean, I never had any solid proof but-" _she had had her suspicions. _The night he hadn't come home, that text message she saw when he left his phone behind one day, the photos of him at that party she hadn't gone to - his arm draped over a scantily clad brunette –

_Fuck_, why did this hurt so much still?

The tears she had been holding back began to tumble forth. She couldn't stop it. Her breathing became shaky and she tried to stem the flow with the destroyed tissue. Dr. Hopper leaned forward with a fresh box and she pulled out a handful and pressed them against her lids. Internally she chastised herself for letting him invoke this response in her after so many years.

"I told myself I wasn't going to cry-" The words came out in shuddering gasps and she felt foolish and weak.

The therapist didn't respond. Instead he stayed silent, waiting for her breathing to fall back in a regular rhythm.

"And when I'm dreaming, I just take it, you know? I just let him treat me so badly and I always feel so helpless and lost," her breath catches in her throat as the pain in her gut rises again. More tears rise, stinging her eyes. "In every one I'm trying to get somewhere, someplace…"

She thinks back to last night's dream: stuck in a hotel, she couldn't find her way. The corridors and spaces changed and warped as she moved around. She would find herself in the same rooms times and time again, but they always looked different. She was following him, wanting to talk but when she found him he turned her away - glossing over his rejection with a smooth smile and words that made her feel foolish.

"And do you ever make it?"

"I don't actually know," she sniffed. "When I wake up it's all a bit of a blur. Whatever I was looking for in the first place is forgotten. All I'm left with is this feeling of unease."

That same feeling rises as she talks, crawling up her throat and gripping around her neck. It's like she is being strangled from within; silently losing a battle with herself.

"You were referred here by your employer, is that correct?"

Emma nodded and pulled another tissue from the box that Dr. Hopper had left on the small table between them. She dabbed it against her underneath of eyes. The skin on the tip of her nose felt hot and raw and she knew her eyes were puffy. She was glad she had remembered her sunglasses.

He flicked through his pad of notes and the questionnaire he had asked her to bring along. Her foot started to tap against the floor. Frowning, he pointed the pen at her foot, "Does that happen often?"

"Yeah, I guess," she shrugged, balling the now damp tissue in her fist, "That or it's my hands. I can't keep them still."

"Hmmm." He scribbled a few words before quickly pulling on a smile and looking her in the eye. "We are going to work together Emma, and get you feeling better. I'm going to give you the tools you need to take charge of your feelings and emotions."

"Okay," she whispered, letting herself smile a little, her vision a little blurry from the salty tears.

"Tell me, what do you do to relax?"

Emma frowned. Relax? "I don't really have time to relax. I work such long hours…"

"You're a-" Dr. Hopper paused and looked at his notes, "'Bail bonds person'?"

"Yeah. Just about the only thing I've ever been good at." He pursed his mouth slightly at her statement, but she overlooked it and continued, "I work case by case - sometimes I'm on a job for a week or more at a time and I spend a lot of time on the road. It doesn't leave much room for socializing."

She didn't add that, although she had been in Boston for five years now, she had yet to make a single real friend - her work colleagues were the closest thing she had to a social network and she had only spoken to two of her neighbors in the year she had lived in her apartment building.

"Well, I think we need to address that. You need something to focus on other than work. I'd like to give you some homework."

"Homework?" she echoed, raising her eyebrows.

"Yes," he nodded, "I'd like you to start thinking about something you would like to do. Maybe you want to learn a language, or how to paint; perhaps you'd rather join a sports club. Anything. Make a list and we'll meet again next week and talk further about how we can develop that."

"Okay," she agreed. Her skin felt tight on her cheeks. The tears had dried but she knew her makeup would be smudged and stained. "Same time?"

"If that's okay with you?"

"Yeah, fine." She stood and picked up her purse, feeling through the leather for her small cosmetic bag. "Thank you, Dr. Hopper."

"Thank you," he replied, standing and opening the door, "I look forward to our next session."

Her boots clipped the wooden floor as she rushed towards the reception of the clinic. She kept her head down, ashamed of her red eyes and messed up make up. Diving into the elevator, she pressed the button for the parking garage and rooted around in her bag for her compact, pulling it out of the cosmetic bag just as the doors opened into the dark basement.

Safely in her car, she flicked on the interior light. Her eyelids were rimmed in an angry red and the white of her eyes was flecked with matching veins. She blinked a few times. Her eyes felt tired and scratchy and she was craving sleep.

Carefully, she patted powder onto her nose where it was shiny from the tears and then found her concealer stick and dotted a little on the puffy bags under her eyes. Finally, she pulled on her large, dark sunglasses, confident that she had concealed the most obvious signs that she had been crying. Slipping the car into drive, she began the journey home.

/

There was a pile of envelopes in her mail box when she arrived. Walking up to her apartment, she flicked through. Junk, mostly.

Once inside, she tossed the take out menus and grocery store flyers in the trash can. The last item was a little different. It was printed on coarse, white office paper that'd been folded in half. It was a photocopied sheet. The cover was simple, with a clip art image of a teacher stood in front of a blackboard. 'Beantown Community College Evening Classes' read the title. An address at the bottom of the page told her it was just a few blocks south from her apartment.

Opening the page she saw a neatly printed timetable on the right side and an introduction opposite it, written in an italicized font.

'_Want to learn a new skill? Meet new friends? Become more confident? Beantown Community College is proud to introduce a series of exciting night classes. Whether it's first aid, art or flower arranging that you are interested in, we have the class for you. Enrollment is open now, sessions are $10 each and everyone is welcome.' _

"Hmm," she pondered as she closed the page. Her hand wavered over the trash can until Dr. Hopper's words began to ring in her ears. Quickly she folded the flyer in half and tossed it in her purse before heading over the fridge to try and find something to eat.

/

It was late by the time she got to bed. Regina, her boss, had called and ran through a number of open cases. Emma knew that she was really just curious about what had happened in the therapy session. Emma told her that she liked Dr. Hopper, and, so far so good. Regina could be a bitch of a boss at times, but she knew she cared. The older woman knew Emma didn't get the chance to see her family all that often and would look out for her when needed.

After brushing her teeth, she pulled her hair into a high ponytail. The puffiness and redness had gone from her face. She studied her reflection.

How had it come to this? The whole situation she now found herself in had taken her by surprise.

It started innocuously enough: she had been so tired, all the time, napping every chance she got. Then, she hadn't been able to sleep at all, spending the early hours of the morning marathoning shows on Netflix or trawling the internet on her phone.

The first time she cried in the office she told herself it was hormonal. But a half a dozen occasions later, she knew something was wrong. Every day she felt on edge: she clenched her jaw unconsciously and ground her teeth - made herself feel sick by holding her stomach muscles in an unnaturally tense way.

Then one day she just couldn't get out of bed. Regina had come to her apartment when she hadn't answered her phone. She'd been curled up in her comforter atop the mattress, frozen in position.

Even thinking about what had happened seemed crazy to her. First, she hadn't been able to decide whether to wash her hair or not and she'd gone into the bathroom and turned on the taps, only to stand, paralyzed by indecision as the hot water trickled down the drain and steamed up the room. Then, as she watched the empty shower, she had thought about what she was going to wear that day - and for some reason, making that decision terrified her even more. By the time she had thought about the pile of unfinished paper work waiting in the office, she was mid-panic attack. It was too much. She couldn't think straight. All she wanted was to clear her mind and not have to think; for everything to go away.

Regina had insisted she talk to the occupational therapist the company had on retainer. She had interviewed Emma over the phone and suggested that she may be suffering from anxiety, before referring her for therapy sessions. Emma had tried to protest that she was fine, even as she felt herself slipping further away from the woman she recognized. But when Dr. Hopper's secretary had called to make an appointment, she found herself agreeing easily to a time and date.

Padding back into the kitchen, she pulled the flyer from her purse. She dived under the covers, pulling them around her waist and drawing up her knees so she could smooth the paper flat. Turning to the list of classes, her eyes scanned down. _Flower Arranging for Beginners_, _Jewelry making_, _Conversational Mandarin_. The choice was huge. The last one on the list caught her eye: _Writing for Pleasure_. She ran her finger along the row and read the description that had been squeezed into the tiny box. _Whether you are a first time writer or looking to restart your portfolio, this project-based class will provide you with all the skills you need to be a more confident author. Course Instructor: K. Jones._

She used to write as a kid, back home in Maine. Her mother was a school teacher and had encouraged her as a method of expression. It was never a serious hobby though and it had petered out as she advanced through high school.

Something about the idea of writing again appealed to her. It was painfully clear that she lacked a creative outlet. She'd let work take over her life and the strain was showing. Depositing the flyer on her bedside table she turned out the light and promised herself she would drop by the college soon and find out more.

**_a/n Neal is a big factor in how Emma has been feeling, but he is not the _****only****_ factor. I'll be delving more into that soon - including her other behaviors as a consequence of this and also what has triggered her spiral into these emotions._**

**_Reviews are extremely appreciated, thank you!_**


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